wild things

It’s, for some too-chewy,
A gnashing, toothy maw
They dive out of, or crawl,
To become who they are,
Outwear who they were.
No boast for old bones,
Bur-burned and bruised,
Cold-tipped and skewed,
Yet they, too, will leap
From that thrashing tongue,
Though more shrewdly;
Rudely, they may go
Forgotten-fast and unsung
For being eaten clean
By the hungry past,
Sight unseen and sudden-gone—
But turned backs are
For backwards thinking;
The unblinking wait
For that monster to yawn.